Street performers stroll down the sidewalks of San Francisco,

Catching stares and slipping dollars from tin cups into their pockets.

These are no ordinary drummers and drawers.

No, these sly schemers are homeless by profession.

Jugglers and gigolos alike challenge onlookers to suspend their disbelief

As one skilled artist delicately throws and snatches balls of every size…

And the other does the same, but quite differently.

On to the next alleyway, where beatboxers and baristas bearing boomboxes

Bob their heads to an inaudible tune.

Only souls in the know can appreciate the genius of gambling a grin for a gig,

And those in the crowded coffee houses are not welcome to play this game.

More effort goes into creating exclusivity than making music,

But point this out and risk getting booted to the lowest rung

Of the lopsided ladder: mimes and minstrels.

Crossing paths with these happy-go-lucky martyrs means admitting defeat

And slinking back to the solace of suburbia.

The culinary crafts come next

As cafes proudly concoct clever creations.

Crème fraiche and foi gras

Aside soul food and filet mignon.

All these artisanal treats tempt the tummy and tweak the arteries

Of tasters and talkers of fine cuisine.

At the curb, a baby bird chokes on hors d’oeuvres

Discarded by the crazy cat lady who prefers pad Thai

Dinner is done, which means it’s time for dancing.

Dare to compete with the soulja boy

Who steps up to the stage with his hoodrats to give his harlem a shake.

Can’t bring yourself to breakdance? Then shimmy over to the ballet

Where smoothly choreographed skeletons bore you to death

With their prim postures.

Salsa can be fun – just don’t slip and slide into the slurs of skewed Spanglish.

Skip the Bollywood bellydancing, though.

No one wants to see a slumdog unless he’s a millionaire.

Perhaps the pull of paintbrushes will pique your curiosity.

Plenty of broken souls brimming with potential line the walls of galleries.

Invitations to galas promise glamour and giddiness.

But a meet-and-greet with the artist is quite impossible.

He plucked out his pulmonary vein with a pastel pencil

Two weeks prior to his debut.

He didn’t make it past the paperwork at the emergency room entrance.

But you can buy a pretty picture to support the arts.

They are only ten thousand dollars apiece, and all proceeds go to paying

For the gowns of the gallery owners.

What better way to wrap up your day in the city

Than with a rowdy group of rap artists? Propelled by the promise of Porches

And endless plastic cards,

These self-indulgent gangsters

Growl until they grip the spirits of their slap-happy crowd.

Little known fact about those who make it to the big leagues:

Their lyrics are stripped by burnt out hacks,

Then shaped into a grotesque shadow of the good life.

So go forth and create, my child.

Do not be frightened by the circus of cringe-worthy campers that parade the streets,

Shouting obscenities into the big city night.

No, you won’t fall into the trap of tricks and treachery, I promise.

Try not to think about the tumbling trapeze performers,

Or the garbage heap of wasted potential

Burning into the night sky.

Simply be. Be an artist.